


This is Axiom

by Schwoozie



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Beth Lives, F/M, Family, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-11 00:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3308528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beth is... he can't say the word yet. Not yet. But he's learning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Axiom

**Author's Note:**

> _Beth seems like this really cool name for a place you just go to be in paradise forever... Rest, it's this ongoing thing... It just sounds like forever -[Bon Iver](http://www.songfacts.com/detail.php?id=23284)_
> 
> "I think if he’s gonna zero in on one, he’s gonna zero in sort of by accident and he’s gonna be not the one zeroing in first, and then he’ll just stay with her. I think he’s one of those, like an eagle. I think once they start flying together they’re gonna always fly together" - [Norman Reedus](https://soundcloud.com/cap1028/nr-ew-2615)

She can only see one at a time.

That's what Morgan says. He'd gone on for a while about what she'd told him the doctors said—they don't know what effect the bullet will've had on her, only that anxiety attacks will be the least of it. She should, by all rights, be dead, after all—should be lying in the puddle of blood they left her in, when they had to run. When they left her.

They left her—no, _he_ left her, he left her, he dropped her, her limp body slipped from his arms when Rick dragged him backwards into the truck and they roared away from the encroaching hoard. She should be dead. But she isn't. She gets blackouts, sometimes, and can't see from one eye, and her fainting spells mean it will be dangerous to have her in the open ever again—but she isn't dead. She's here. She's—

He can't quite say the word yet. Not yet. Not when he hasn't seen her. Maybe not even then. Because when he knew her before she was more  _that word_  than anyone he's ever known in his miserable life; she was what  _that word_  felt like to him. Beth. A woman, a weight, a state of being. She was all that and more.

 _Is._  She  _is_.

He'll have to get used to saying that too.

She can only see one at a time, and of course Maggie goes first. He hadn't strayed far; stayed close enough to hear Maggie's sobs through the door, Beth's resounding silence. It doesn't surprise him, cause he still doesn't quite believe she exists—still thinks, still  _knows_ , that when he came home from his hunt to a breathless Carl, a Carl who grabbed his wrist and pulled him along, explained in panting gasps, told him she's there, she's here, she's—he still thinks it's a mistake. A cosmic goddamn mistake, some form of the April Fools jokes Merle used to love, like the time he told him Suzanne Jones wanted his dick and got him slapped six weeks to Sunday. 

That's what Beth being back is. It's four lacquered nails leaving scratch marks across his face. It's Merle crapping his pants laughing. That's Beth being back.

But then Maggie is out, and before she can even look at Daryl Carl is bouncing in, full of an energy Daryl hasn't seen in him since Atlanta. And when Carl leaves Daryl stares at the floor, so Rick goes next. Then Glenn, and Carol, and Michonne, and Tyreese and Sasha, even though those two hardly knew her, and no one knows her the way he—

No. No. He doesn't get to think like that, no more than he can think it about Merle.

He left her.

The sun's long gone and he's sitting in dark by the time he feels Rick's shadow fall between himself and the moon. He wouldn't move, he couldn't move, if not for the babbling coo that comes from above.

“Da-dle,” Judith says, and when he looks up she's reaching for him, little feet drumming on Rick's stomach as she leans half out of his arms. It was the first time Daryl smiled, after, the first time Judith said that—he'd been sitting, just sitting with Judith in his lap, staring into the fire thinking of her when the tugging on his scruff became more insistent and she shouted her first word. It cracks Rick up to this day, that her first word was 'dad' but it doesn't mean him. But it's alright. It's alright. Judith belongs to all of them anyway.

But really, to her. To her. To none more than her.

Rick isn't laughing now. He's looking down at Daryl, somber. Daryl recognizes the look in his eyes; he gets it when he's in cop mode, trying to figure out someone's state of mind, how dangerous they might be. Except he isn't looking for danger in Daryl, he knows. Not danger to anyone else.

“She hasn't seen Judy yet,” Rick says, almost inaudible over his—their—daughter's squeals. Daryl meets his eyes. “Wanna take her in?”

Daryl looks up at him, at his brother, at their girl—the little girl with her hands reaching, straining, curled in fists like they would around the strands of Beth's hair, tugging until Rick had to help Beth untangle herself. She wouldn't be angry, though; she would laugh—throw back her head and laugh, wincing at the pain in her scalp but laughing, laughing. Daryl didn't enjoy her laughter enough, didn't think much of it until he scooped her into his arms and felt the puff of breath on his neck and realized his heart was beating to the same rhythm.

It's the realization that maybe Judith will be able to say Beth's name too—let him learn that laugh again—that gets him standing. He takes their girl from Rick—holds her close for a moment, just holds her, face rolling across her downy head as he breathes in the clean scent of baby. He can't help chuckling a little at her indignant little 'Da-dle's as she pushes at his chest. He loosens his hold and looks at Rick. His lips fall.

“How does she—“

“She looks rough, Daryl,” Rick says, still in that hushed tone. “She's been through a lot. But I know she wants to see you.” Daryl snorts softly, leaning down to kiss Judith's head. Rick's hand on his shoulder drags his gaze back up. “Was the first thing she said when I went in. 'Where's Daryl?' Maggie'd left snot all over her shirt and she was askin' for you.”

There's nothing Daryl can say to that; nothing at all.

He feels Rick's eyes on his back as he steps towards the door. He stops in front of it, wondering suddenly if the one person rule applies to Judith; what if he does something wrong, coming in with the both of them, and she can't stand the sight of it, yells him out like the trash he is—

But then Judith is muttering her baby words into the skin of his throat and he wants to see her in Beth's arms again.

He knocks on the door; waits for what feels like an eternity for the small raspy 'come in', said in a tone like it was being repeated.

He inches into the room as carefully as he can, taking up as little space as possible so the door can slide quickly shut behind himself. The room is lit by a soft glow of candlelight, but he knows it only from the shadows on the floor; he can't bring himself to look, not yet, not with the meter of her laughter still beating in his skull like a dance.

Even when she says the little girl's name, the voice is too low, too hoarse to know for sure—it would take him aback, if he heard it in a crowd, but he wouldn't stop for it—and it allows him to take those steps forward, eyes on the floor, and press the baby into her arms.

It's only the gasp— _I'm goin' as fast as I can—_ forget that— _forget that_ —that shakes his gaze from its bounds.

She's thinner, is the first thing he sees, far thinner; her collarbones throw actual shadows across her chest, and her head looks too big to sit on so small a neck. Her hair, too, is gone; just a few months of growth, a fuzzy blonde helmet still too short to rest easily against her scalp. There's a bald patch towards the crown of her head, and an ugly, jagged circle above the two slashes on her cheeks—but he doesn't see them. He sees her hands shake as they cup around Judith's shoulders, so she doesn't fall. He sees the shimmer gather in her eyes, the tears that fall. He sees the flutter through her thin skin—barely there, a tip-toe, a hush—but it's there: the heartbeat, the spark of life.

_Alive._ That was the word.

His knees just about buckle then, and it's only the post of the bed that saves him. He grips it, and the frame rattles, and she looks at him; she looks at him.

She's still crying, but silently, and he can't stand the sight of the water on her cheeks even as he wants to press his face to hers and soak up every drop. He only knows he's crying too when he feels moisture in the crease of his nose. But he doesn't wipe it away; just stares at her staring back, feels the air between them, wonders how so many millions of miles have been compressed to so few.

“Da-dle!” Judith squeals. She bounces on Beth's lap, demanding attention; both their gazes flicker to her, and then back together, like twin magnets pointing north. It's easier, now, a step easier, to hold that gaze; his breath hiccups in his chest when she smiles.

“Hi Da-dle,” Beth whispers.

“Hey Beth.” 

He doesn't think any sound actually comes out, but she doesn't seem to care, because she's smiling, she's still smiling, wider and wider and baring her teeth and soon the tears are dripping onto her gums as she giggles, turning back to the baby and pressing her to her breast, pushing her face into her head just where Daryl had minutes before.

_Theirs_ .

Her breath hitches a little when he eases himself onto the bed; when she makes no other movement, he continues until he's settled, feet on the floor and hands on the mattress and eyes on the girl before him. Beth glances at him, then lies back until she hits the heap of pillows. As if lulled by the candlelight, Judith goes with her, and Daryl watches as the little girl lays her head on Beth's breasts, sticks her thumb in her mouth, closes her eyes. Her breathing evens in moments, and Daryl feels it—every sleepless night, every broken nap, every step he's taken from that hospital to here; here where Beth is looking at him, her shorn hair flaxen still in the candlelight, skin like an ocean as she rests her hands on Judith's back. Feels her heart beat. Feels the flutter in her own chest slow in time.

“Stay with me?”

And Daryl looks at them, at the glow, the way they each seem haloed like angels, even when the space behind is black. He looks at Beth's hand as it reaches for his; watches the touch creep its way from his skin to his spine to his mind where it spreads, the reality of it that draws a scattered gasp from his throat. It takes him only a few more moments to relax his fingers, turn his hand; feel her slip around him, as intimate as his hands that will soon touch her face, her throat, that beat. That beat, alive,  like the future between them.

And he stays. He stays.

He just stays.

 


End file.
